Kendra is armed for bear, zombie, and miscellaneous as yet uncategorized malevolent entities of a possibly ambitious nature. She's got a particularly large morning star in her right hand, crafted more for close quarters carnage than distance killing. She spent a goodly portion of last evening checking and rechecking her weapons, testing them for heft, balance, and sharpness.

She's ready.

But she's also hoping she won't have to get too up close and pesonal with the enemy. But Kendra knows that such hopes are almost always futile. That's why her left hand has a broadsword, a heavy one, because she doesn't want to waste time with crushing skull strikes when she can just behead. She's got other weapons, but if it comes down to using those, she'll be in more trouble than she'd care to admit, but that short sword strapped to her right hip should hold her for a while if things go south too quickly.

Truth be told, she'd have preferred to be the first one through the door, on the principle that an aggressive offense is better than a defense without fail, but Tom knows the lay of the land until she can get in the air and pick out her targets.

He might feel a whoosh of air behind him as soon as he's given her enough room to ascend.

Ugh. The smell, that sickly sweet and slightly astringent smell of the undead. Sadly, she's familiar with it.

Then she's ten feet in the air, assessing who is where and what is what.

"Go!" she says, mostly to herself. She's trying to save her voice for when the killing starts.

Kendra doesn't like zombies close to her friends. Were this a more leisurely pursuit, where so much danger wasn't present, she might experiment with distraction techniques, but right now all she wants to know is if she can make them keep looking at her and perhaps, if the stars are aligned, follow her.

"Up here!" she singsongs. "Hey, sooooey soooey soooey!"

Then she arches, and descends in an arc. Kendra can fly very, very fast when she's got space and time to work up speed, but gravity works almost as well in pulling her down, and she uses that to her advantage. The shamble is too close together to use her sword effectively until she picks off one or two to loosen up the crowding.

There, that guy, the male zombie at the back, pushing the shamble towards Tom.

Her mace is up with a roar - that's the fun part, when her adrenaline surges into overdrive and she can roar as loud as she can - and down it comes with a wet CRUNCH sound of breaking skull and traumatized brain matter.

If she loses her voice, there's always the throat lozenges in a pouch on her belt.

Her first suitor has slowly begun to crumple to his knees. Apparently, it takes a while for these zombies to work out that they might, in fact, be dead.

Half his head is sliding wetly down the remains of his Kings of Leon t-shirt, with bits of skull festively decorating bits of brain like particularly white tortilla chips in pink guacamole.

Meanwhile, Kendra has taken to the air again, striving for height, up, up, and up, orienting herself first to the sun, whose position reads afternoon to her. Circling, she looks down, scanning and picking out any structures, trees, overhangs, or anything else that might hide more shambling or ambling unwanted pursuers coming their way.

"Clear!" she shouts, hoping to God they can hear her. "Clear! Nothing but them for now!"

Later, they can talk about how sad it all is. It is sad, this pretty Earth of Tom's that's been overrun with the dead, with nothing home in the faces of all of these people that used to eat, laugh, make love, weep, walk the dog, buy milk at the store, and simply live.

Kendra's taken the opportunity to put some horizontal distance between herself and the shamble, angling for an approach that doesn't get her in the line of fire of anyone else. That would be, after all, a bit louche. Nothing humiliates like going to the hospital and explaining that you went down due to overzealously getting in the way of friendly fire.

Then she's circling back, shoving her mace into the loop at her right hip so she can free up a hand, aiming again for the back of the shamble, flying in fast just feet above the ground, snatching at the leather collar of a jacket being worn by a sadly decrepit teenage girl.

Maybe he should have gone with the gun after all, he reflects, as it's rather hard to get up enough leverage to kill a zombie with a cricket bat when you also have to prop open a door. Nevertheless, the hooded zombie goes down easily enough once it shambles into close enough range.

Elle's not carrying any weapons, but her hands are crackling before she steps through the door. It's simple, apparently: Anyone she didn't come here with is fair game. And they're all zombies – which don't look much like Tom's cardboard cutouts, and but a lot like fucked up humans. Except slower.

And they don't fly, or do much of anything else.

None of this bothers Elle. She doesn't waste any time in sending a thick, blue electrical charge that leaves a rather tall, gangly one charred beyond recognition before it has time to make much noise.

Now that it's down, that she's seen what it takes, well – she won't be quite as quick about it.

She moves sideways, with her back to the wall, as two more approach from the right – one looks like an old man, wearing something tattered and bloodstained, though Elle recognizes the clerical collar. Her left hand opens to toss a small, bright blue sphere of electricity toward him; it's not even enough to shock him, but more than enough to set his shirt on fire.

The zombie screeches and stumbles into the short, balding man behind it, making Elle grin before she uses both hands to send the electricity toward their heads to leave them nothing more thank hunks than burnt up flesh and charred bone. Her eyes linger on them long enough for another to get close enough to latch a hand on her ponytail – Elle spins to grab the zombie's arm, her hand sparking with the amps to burn straight through its skin. It's a skinny woman in a red tank top that recoils momentarily before Elle reaches toward the thick metal chain of a necklace around its neck and pulls.

Hard. The woman's distracted by clawing at the high voltage chain as it burns into her neck as Elle lifts her hand to incinerate her face. This time she isn't slow about letting the woman drop and choosing another.

There's not a lot left – the lawn is mostly covered with variously splattered and burnt corpses. After a quick scan, she hits a middle-aged woman in the back with a thin bolt of electricity that slices through the air like lightning. It's bright white, enough to bring the woman down without killing her. The woman's yell is brief, and she immediately tries to pull herself up again. So Elle throws another handful of electricity toward her.

The zombie's not incinerated until the fourth throw. Elle's face is blank when she lowers her hand.

The adrenaline's wearing off. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. "Okay. Don't let any of that" -- a nod towards the gore -- "get inside you, any of you, okay? Wash it off as soon as you get back to the bar."

A deep breath. "And thank you. Thank you, guys. I couldn't -- I would be so dead right now. Thanks."

He takes another breath, and jerks his head towards the door. "Okay, you guys should probably go back."